Killing Sherlock Holmes
by NotAnotherFan
Summary: Anderson reflects on the past three years of Sherlock's death and the crushing guilt he's lived with.
1. Chapter 1

This was written before series 3 of Sherlock aired. Chaper 6 hasn't been published/updated since then and probably won't be for a while...

* * *

21st of June - Summer Solstice. The first day of Summer and the emotions that are supposed to be attached to it. Light. Warmth. Joy. Happiness.

He felt none of these. He thought that as time passed- and "time heals all wounds" as he'd been told so many times- that these emotions may return. No. Every summer solstice since_ that day_ brought the cold, the dark, and the pain. Oh, the pain. That was the most surprising. He always questioned why_ he_, of all people, felt the same pain of those closest to him. The questioning made the pain worse and the pain caused more questioning. A never ending cycle like the earth rotating round the sun and the winter and summer solstices that came and went with it.

Oh. The solar system. Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, the cleverest man he'd ever met (though he'd never admit that) did not know that the earth went around the sun. Anderson let out a small laugh for the first time in days. Yes, Sherlock Holmes may have been extremely clever but his knowledge was appalling in certain areas.

"You okay, Anderson?"

His head snapped up to see Lestrade walking past his desk.

"Yeah. I'm okay. Yeah"

"Good. Okay"

How long had he been lost in thought? The Yard was busy today and the office was full of noise from workers chatting away whilst busy solving crimes or workers groaning about the amount of paperwork they'd been left with. Anderson internally groaned too on remembering that's what he was supposed to be doing before he'd read Sherlock's name and got lost in his memories.

Lestrade gave him a worried glance but decided that the police officer hovering by the office door and tapping his foot impatiently was more important. Anderson wondered how Lestrade was coping today. It was hard to tell; he was always so busy running around NSY that you never had a chance to catch his emotions or even have a conversation of more than 10 words. Maybe he'd find out later. Maybe this year they'd stay and talk about it. Maybe he could just ask him how he was now. He watched Lestrade dash back past his desk to retrieve a file. Maybe not.

He dropped his head back to his own file and the paperwork of the last case that himself and Sherlock had worked on. The_ last_ case. He worked through it quickly trying to make it as mundane as possible. It wasn't unusual for old cases to be pulled back up and for the paperwork to have to be gone through again but Anderson thought it was extremely cruel of fate to make him have to work through _this_ case on_ this_ day. He tried desperately to detach himself from it. S. Holmes and P. Anderson were strangers to him. They were just a name to go in a file which would collect dust for another few years until they needed another signature somewhere.

It wasn't working. As he read the case over again he could remember it so clearly like it was happening right now in front of him. Sherlock had been in a particularly bad mood that day and Anderson felt that him being on the case too had caused that bad mood to increase. Sherlock definitely made sure he knew how much he hated him being there. In fact, looking back, Anderson was positive that Sherlock had gone out of his way to follow him around and remind him of how stupid and utterly incompetent he was.

"Well done, Anderson!"

"What? What did I do?"

"You've just proved that you are dumber than this man at your feet who's managed to kill himself with a teapot!"

"No, he was murdered..."

Anderson cringed at those four words as he replayed them in his head. Those four words- and everybody at that crime scene thought them too before Sherlock was called over- earned him 30 minutes of particularly painful humiliation as Sherlock reenacted the whole event of how Mr X. managed to kill himself accidentally and that Mrs X. was not a murderer.

Acting out the role of the teapot because "that's the highest your IQ would ever achieve. Don't give me that look, I am being kind here because a teapot is extremely useful...unlike you" was not the high point of his career, Anderson decided. Yes, Sherlock had definitely gone out of his way to prove his hatred of him on that case.

Anderson sighed as he read on. He would suffer through that day again and again if it meant it would bring Sherlock back. Bargaining. The third stage of "the five stages of grief". They'd all had the talk by the on-site counsellor. Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. Of course, 'grieving is different for everybody and not everybody will experience all, if any of these stages, and they may not be in order'. The counsellor had drilled that into their heads at every point she could manage.

Anderson _had_ experienced them all apart from acceptance. He could get through four and back on a bad day. He thought today would be one of those days considering it was the 3rd anniversary. Maybe time was healing him. He glanced up as Lestrade rushed past again. "Yeah. I'm okay. Yeah" had he replied to him? Denial. He'd woken up crabby this morning and taken his rage out on his toothbrush after a 5 minute (one sided) argument about why it wouldn't work properly. Anger. '3 stages so far. So time is a slow healer' he thought as he sighed heavily. Depression. Definitely depression. And there it was. The four stages and it wasn't even lunch time. The longest day of the year was definitely making a point about its length.

He slowly got to the end of the paperwork after several more trips down memory lane and countless insults he remembered Sherlock sharing with him. With another heavy sigh he signed the paperwork off and got up to file it in Lestrade's office. He hoped Lestrade was there just so he could see what mood he was in and what it looked like he was feeling. It had to be worse for him. He was closer to Sherlock. He /liked/ Sherlock and Sherlock in his own Sherlock way liked Lestrade back. Had Lestrade gone through the five stages of grief? Had he managed to achieve "acceptance"? Anderson wondered why he couldn't reach this last stage and why he was even experiencing the stages of grieving anyway. It was no secret that he disliked Sherlock.

He barely noticed any of his fellow colleagues on the short walk past their desks to reach Lestrade's office. Did one greet him? Did one ask him how he was? Did one call his name? He wasn't sure. He saw the paperwork file on the table left outside the office. Anderson's depressed mood increased slightly. That meant Lestrade's office was locked so he wasn't in there. He'd gone to lunch early. Sherlock would have sniggered at that basic and rubbish deduction. He put the files down and was thinking about going to eat lunch somewhere alone when a familiar voice at one of the desks behind him made him jump slightly and all thoughts of dreary cafeteria food leave his mind. He discreetly turned around and made it look like he was checking the time on the large clock on the wall opposite Lestrade's office.

1pm and John Watson. John Watson was at the Yard. John Watson was at The Yard and sat 4 desks away from him talking to one of Anderson's colleagues and Lestrade. He'd walked straight past them and not even noticed. Sherlock definitely would have berated him for that.


	2. Chapter 2

John looked up and, catching Anderson's eye, made his way over to where he was now rooted to the spot. Why had his pulse just increased? What was it about John that made him nervous? He avoided eye contact as John walked over and instead looked past him to see Lestrade also approaching. His pulse increased again and he felt his mouth go dry. Why _was_ he nervous?!

John greeted him and Anderson mumbled 'hi' back. Anderson struggled to work out whether John looked upset or not. He discreetly eyed him up and down but couldn't tell anything from his appearance. If he had been alone he would have laughed at the irony of needing Sherlock to deduce. 'Liar', he thought to himself; 'You know that thought hurt you; you wouldn't have laughed, you'd have cried. Again'. Anderson had no time to process the thought further as Lestrade had now joined them and just broken the several seconds of what Anderson presumed to have been an uncomfortable silence.

Lestrade unlocked his office and indicated for them both to join him inside. John followed with ease but Anderson remained outside, brow furrowed by the confusion of the situation.

"In your own time, Anderson!" Lestrade called to him.

He heard John let out a small laugh as he crossed the threshold to join them. Lestrade was sitting behind his desk with John on the other side. They both looked at home. Lestrade indicated for him to shut the door and then take a seat next to John. He did so, still with a confused look on his face.

"He would have had a field day with you pulling that expression"

John said quietly before letting out another small laugh. Lestrade chuckled too as Anderson's confused look mingled with a frown.

"That's definitely the face you pull when you first arrive at a new crime scene" Lestrade said before chuckling again. He quickly stopped when he saw Anderson glaring at him.

"Anyway…" He cleared his throat. "Um, I know that you're wondering why John is here and why I've brought you both into my office and um, well, the thing is…" He trailed off, seemingly struggling how to phrase the next part of his sentence. He looked Anderson straight in the eye.

"I want…I mean we…I mean…" Another throat clear. A deep sigh. His eyes on John. Anderson saw John nod from the corner of his eye. His eyes were back on Anderson. 'Are those tears in his eyes?' Anderson wondered.

"John and I want you to come with us tonight when we go visit the grave" he quickly stated. Anderson opened his mouth to say something but Lestrade held up his hand to stop him.

"I mean, we're all going tonight. Y'know, Mrs Hudson, Molly, several of us from the office, Donovan…" He gave him a look. "Anyway, like I said, we want you to come with us."

"Why do you think I'd want to come?"

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. They sounded harsher than he'd meant them to. Did he see John flinch slightly or was he imagining that? Lestrade looked like he was struggling to phrase his next sentence again. This annoyed Anderson. Why was Lestrade suddenly so conscious of what he was saying around him? It was like he was tip-toeing around him. The way he was looking at John irritated Anderson too. He felt like he was back at school and the two of them were ganging up on him because he didn't know their little secret.

Several moments had passed in silence. It was John who finally broke it.

"We know you visit his grave each year, Anderson" he said softly.

Anderson felt his face flush and decided that his shoes would be extremely interesting to look at. He could feel both John's and Lestrade's eyes on him. He was now concentrating extremely hard on his shoes.

"Anderson?" Lestrade asked quietly.

[12 eyelets on each shoe]

[How did they know I visit his grave?]

[Should probably put new laces in my left shoe soon]

[I was so careful nobody saw me visit]

[Left shoe is really scuffed]

[How /did/ they know?]

[Sherlock says you can deduce a lot about somebody from their shoes]

[Do. Not. Cry. Do. Not. Cry]

"Anderson, it's okay. We're here for you"

This was the final straw. He couldn't take Lestrade pitying him of all people when John was in the room. He leapt out of his chair avoiding eye contact as he went. Lestrade called his name again as he threw the door open but he didn't hear him.

His heart was beating loudly. Banging. Pounding. Crushing. It was all he could hear. He rushed past all his colleagues sat at their desks with their own lives in their own worlds and their problems so small. How he envied them. How he wished he could be them. How he _hated_ them. He passed the toilets on the floor he was on as he knew Lestrade would be straight in there after him. He reached the stairwell.

"We're here for you". "We know you visit his grave". "We're here for you". "We know you visit his grave". The two sentences repeated in his head as he climbed each step.

"We're here for you". "We know you visit his grave". They were now echoing his heart. Up and up he went. Faster. His face was still flushed and he knew the tears were coming. Faster still. Beating harder. Ringing louder.

"We're here for you". "We know you visit his grave".

He reached the top floor. Nobody came up here as it was still under construction and for once Anderson praised NSY for not having enough money. He hurried to the other end of the floor where the toilets were. The tears wouldn't wait long and the constant, steady words and his heart beat were still crushing him.

The toilets were unlocked much to Anderson's relief and he stumbled inside and into a cubicle making sure he locked it behind him. He shut the toilet lid and collapsed down onto it with his head in his hands. Hot, fat tears fell into his hands. He did nothing but let them fall for several minutes until they subsided. Ugly sobbing took their place then.

Minutes passed. The small space and the fact nobody had found him seemed to be calming him. The sobbing slowly stopped. His heart wasn't pounding as hard. The constant ringing of the words were becoming dimming. He lifted his head out of his hands so he could concentrate on regaining his shallow, staggered breathing. More minutes passed. The question burned in his mind again. How_ had_ they known he visited Sherlock's grave each year?

Oh.

_Oh._

Those two words. He hadn't put those two words together for a long time. The grave. His grave. Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock's grave.

Sherlock's grave.

_Sherlock's grave_.

* * *

Those two words. Oh, those words. 'Sherlock's grave'. The pain. The pain they caused.

The toilet cubicle which felt small and safe was now becoming too small. The heartbeat that had slowed was now starting to race and pound again. The breathing which had returned to normal was reverting back to shallow and staggered breaths.

Smaller. Faster. Harder. Too small. Too fast. Too hard.

Panic attack? Panic attack.

Anderson had had a panic attack once before in his life many years ago. He knew how that had ended and that thought panicked him more. He struggled to rise from his seat and struggled to unlock the cubicle door. He only just managed and burst out like a caged animal being set free for the first time. His heart was still pounding and every breath was becoming more shallow and harder. He made for the sink in the hope that splashing cold water on his face would shock him out of this.

Trembling hands grasped to turn the tap on. A creak of pipes. Nothing. The plumbing hadn't been finished.

Too fast now. Too hard now. Walls closing in again. One trembling hand now clutched the neck in a vain attempt to open it up. Another trembling hand clutched the sink as he knelt on the floor. He managed to get himself into the foetal position. Maybe Lestrade would find him. Did he want him to find him? He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything now other than the loud pounding and the shallow breaths.

Pounding. Breathing. Pounding. Breathing. Pounding. Breathing. Darkness.

Nothing. 


	3. Chapter 3

Death. Wasn't death a funny thing? The only thing inevitable about life was death. Death. The king of life. The destroyer of life. The unknown and the thing that  
baffles everybody. Death is always there. Feared by most, welcomed by some. The constant companion of life. Death.

Anderson had seen one person actually die and had lost count at the number of dead bodies he'd seen. From babies to the old and everything in between, he'd seen it all. Who would work so closely with death? But that's what he did and that's what he found interesting. Death was just a day job. Mundane. Death was ironically his life. He wasn't sure anymore if he feared death. He certainly didn't want to die but he wasn't scared of it. Yes, death was mundane and didn't bother him. There was only one exception.

Sherlock Holmes.

He'd been in the office doing paperwork when he found out (where else?). Somebody important looking swept through the desks and straight into Lestrade's office. Anderson had thought it was unusual but nothing out of the ordinary. He remembered it clearly. The final signature on the finished paperwork and the relief of going home early. The important looking man stepped out of Lestrade's office just as Anderson had risen from his seat. Lestrade's boss followed. That /was/ unusual Anderson thought. There was no time to think anything else as Lestrade had just exited as well. Anderson fell back in his seat on seeing Lestrade. He was grey. He looked like...he couldn't put it into words what he looked like. Just grey. A hand on the shoulder from the important looking man. A clear of the throat by Lestrade. There was no need to ask for everybody's attention as all eyes were already on him. Another throat clear. The opening and closing of the mouth several times. Words had failed him. The important looking man spoke for him.

He explained what had happened. Anderson couldn't remember what was actually said just the four words: "Sherlock Holmes is dead". Those words would stay with him. The image so clear.

The three man eventually went back into the office. Anderson was sure that nobody knew how long had passed. Time had lost all meaning now. A murmur was now rushing round and round the desks, rising and falling as it hit each person. Some people started to eventually get up to go home and others were trying to get back to work in the sea of noise. All Anderson heard was ringing in his ears. It'd been there since those four words were spoken but now it was louder than ever. He had got up and was halfway down the stairs before he realised what he was doing. He had to find Donovan.

He was just about to exit the building when she came bolting through the doors. No words were needed. They both knew. She'd confided in him about Sherlock and they'd had many hushed conversations about it. Had they had a laugh about him too? He didn't want to admit it. They'd spoken to Lestrade about it eventually. The fake genius. It was their fault. It was their fault. He looked her straight in the eye. Was she wearing the same look on her face that he wore? Shock? Pain? Guilt.

The sound of footsteps above them made them break eye contact. She walked past him, gently patting him on the shoulder as she went. She reached the stairs and looked back as if to say something but changed her mind. Anderson stood staring at the place where she had vanished from sight as he listened to her footsteps grow fainter. The other footsteps grew louder on the stairs now. Anderson quickly exited the building. He wanted to be alone.

He walked and walked, barely looking where he was going. Tourists and end of the day workers surrounded him. They all looked happy. Why did they look happy? Of course. They didn't know. Would they know? He thought it'd be all over the media soon. Journalists would descend on the yard once a press statement was released.

He entered Embankment tube station- his station of choice after work as it was always less crowded- and thanked his subconscious for leading him where, it was not only quieter, but there would be less chance of bumping into work colleagues.

The next thing he knew he was sat on his bed. He didn't remember getting on the tube, he didn't remember getting off, he didn't remember coming in his flat. All he knew was the ringing in his ears was still there and that the guilt was going to overwhelm him at any point. It was their fault. The fake genius. Sherlock Holmes is dead. It was their fault. The fake genius. Sherlock Holmes. Dead. Death. Mundane and didn't bother him. Sherlock Holmes. Dead. Dead.

Dead.

Darkness. Nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

Darkness and cold. It took Anderson a few moments to realise that he was lying on a cold floor and that his eyes were tightly shut. Another few moments and he realised why this was. He'd passed out from his panic attack. His eyes stayed shut as if to deny the whole situation. If nobody had found him by now then they'd either given up or would never find him. Both ended in the same result. He could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing and his heart. They were peaceful and now soothed him. He could now think clearly and slightly detached from it all now. Sherlock's grave. He winced slightly as he thought those words but nothing more. The images of it flashed inside his head and lit up the darkness of his shut eyes.

* * *

The Summer Solstice. His family always had a stupid tradition of having a party every year for it. "A time of laughter, joy, happiness" they always said. Normally it was and a great excuse to meet up with old friends and family and get drunk. This was the second year in a row Anderson wouldn't be joining them. Last year he sat locked alone in his flat with the guilt crushing and consuming him. His family understood why he wouldn't be there. He'd heard their worried talking about him but they understood. This year they wanted to take his mind off the year anniversary but they were less understanding and more worried when he said he was staying at home. He didn't care. The last year had flown by and he hardly remembered any of it apart from his now constant companion, guilt. The whirlwind of Sherlock Holmes had died down in recent months but Anderson's life continued on the never ending cycling of getting up, going to work, sleeping. He was constantly reminded of one passage from 'Frankenstein'. He always had to read that book to his nephew and now it had made an impact on him:

'No distinct ideas occupied my mind; all was confused. I felt light, and hunger, and thirst, and darkness; innumerable sounds rang in my ears, and on all sides various scents saluted me'

Yes, that was now his life. He merely lived off his instincts and guilt. They passed away the minutes which passed into hours, into days, into months, and finally into a year.

The words echoed in his brain once more as he sighed heavily and, with great effort, heaved himself off his bed. His phone vibrated as he walked to the bathroom. He went to turn it off, knowing it'd be another worried text or voice message pleading him to join the party. He looked at the screen; a text from Lestrade. Lestrade flashed through his mind from the past year. Always the clear vision of his grey face and then blurred images of him from the year gone by. He always looked ill, washed out, thin. He was a mere shadow of the man he once was. It would have scared Anderson normally but he knew he must look the same. He walked up to the bathroom mirror and looked at himself properly for the first time in 365 days. The sight shocked him.

Bloodshot eyes with large bags under them first greeted him. Those eyes swept to his skin, pallid and saggy. He had always been lean but now as his eyes took himself in he saw his frame looked almost skeletal. His hair was greasy and several day old stubble was now forming into a beard he used to sport thinking he looked cool. He looked a lot like the images of Lestrade that his brain replayed to him once again.

He looked back at his phone to see what Lestrade had text him. He seldom text other than work related stuff and there had been none in the past year. He had text asking if he was okay. Anderson didn't reply and turned his phone off; he had no answer to give.

He walked up back into his bedroom still seeing things clearly for the first time. His eyes found his untidy bed first. He had no idea when it was last made or if the bed sheets had even been changed. Empty glasses and plates were dotted around the room where he'd managed to satisfy his hunger and thirst instincts. Crumpled up clothes were lying everywhere, particularly in the corner by the door where they made a small mountain. Anderson smelt the nearest lying shirt to him. Musty? Stale? Unclean? He couldn't describe the smell but it wasn't pleasant. Old bills and paperwork littered any space of floor left. Again, Anderson picked up the nearest sheet to him. He didn't remember writing any of the words on the paper but his signature was on it. It was the same for the next piece of paper he picked up, and the next one. He picked up some of the bills and was surprised to see they were all paid off for the next few months. He didn't remember that either. He set about tidying his room, filing paperwork away, taking clothes to be put in the washing machine, and plates in the dishwasher. Finally he changed his sheets and made his bed. The now tidier room made him feel better, his mind also cleaner.

He now stood in the middle of his room thinking. Something had changed inside him; he could feel it deep down and trickling through his veins. He walked back into the bathroom and got in the shower. Was he actually appreciating the hot water? Even enjoying it? He got out and had a shave. He was careful not to look in the mirror for too long; he didn't want to see himself clearly again. His could still feel the thing inside him now coursing through his veins. His mind was starting to tick over, forming a plan, of what he didn't know. Back in his bedroom he rifled through his wardrobe and finally found an old black suit which was probably the only thing which wasn't creased or unpleasant to smell. It hadn't been worn for many, many years in which he'd put on weight as he'd grown older. It was too big for him now as it hung of his thin frame. His mind had finished forming its plan and Anderson now knew what that plan was.

He stepped out of his flat breathing in the fresh summer air. Dark clouds had rolled over London and cast a premature darkness. At one time he might have laughed about the light and warmth disappearing from the solstice party but today wasn't for laughter, in fact he hadn't laughed in at least a year. He made his way to the tube station, knowing instantly where his brain and its plan were taking him. Choking darkness of the underground took over until he made it back under the increasing darkness of the black clouded sky. He made the short walk until he stopped outside the gates. He was at the cemetery.

He hurried through and briefly wondered if any of the bodies he'd seen and spent hours writing up on were under his feet now. Most graves were too weathered to make out a name and they were too close together for him to be bothered looking. Besides, his brain was only concentrating on its plan. A few raindrops fell as he wound in and out of the dead and to the over side of the cemetery. The graves were wider apart here and most looked new. Anderson stopped sharply. He'd seen it. It was hard to miss; the black headstone seemed to gleam even though there was no sun. His name glowed. 'Sherlock Holmes'. It glowed like a God. Anderson let out the tiniest of snorts. The sound shocked him. A God. That was Sherlock all over. A man trying to be God, above all his mortals looking down on them. How ironic that he knew Sherlock didn't believe in God and such things. He knew he would have hated his funeral and the religious rituals that had gone with it.

Anderson was invited to the funeral but had had no plans of attending it. He didn't think he would have been able to face it. He was right. Fate had had other ideas for him. He'd been to another funeral that morning of a distance family member that he'd only met a handful of times but could make no excuse to avoid the burial. How cruel for it to have been held in the one place he was trying to not to be. He'd watched the end of Sherlock's funeral from afar. He'd made sure the full leafed, summer trees had hidden him from view. Like all things in the past year, it was a bit of a blur. He'd caught the odd word, seen the coffin lowered into the ground, and watched the mourners say their final farewell. It had been too much in the end and he'd turned his back on it, vowing never to return. Yet here he once exactly one year later almost in the same spot.

Anderson glanced around him but he was the only living person around. He slowly approached the grave. What was he doing here? Why had he returned? He didn't know why and didn't know what he was actually going to do now he was here. He stopped at the headstone. His heart was beating loudly as if to prove he was alive among the dead. He reached his hand out to touch the headstone but stopped, his fingers hovering millimetres above it. His heart beat louder. He dropped his hand back to his side. He wasn't sure why he didn't want to touch the headstone. Was it because it made it real? A physical object that confirmed death? His hands stayed glued to his sides. He just stared at that glowing name whilst trying to think of what, if anything, he was going to say.

His sat down by the grave, being careful not to touch it. His mind suddenly surged, brimming with thoughts and he blindly opened his mouth to let them all out. Before he knew it he was talking to the headstone. He was blurting out the first thoughts to cross his mind.

He talked about how the past year had been at work. How they'd found out about his death. How the important looking man had taken over for the time being. He wanted things to ease back into the norm even though Lestrade was off indefinitely. Anderson had been back out on cases for a few weeks. He wished for the paperwork, something he thought he'd never admit. It was a different atmosphere now. He hated being there. He used to think death was mundane but not anymore. The bodies scared him. He dreamt about them at night. Every night. The bodies always turned into Sherlock, sometimes alive, sometimes dead. They always stared at him for all of the dream though. Those piercing blue, hawk-like eyes. They burned into his very soul. He always woke up in a cold sweat and gasping for breath. He feared the nights the most and went to all sorts of lengths to avoid sleep. In the end, he saw sense and asked to be taken off field work and kept in the office. He was asked if he needed see the counsellor.

He talked to the headstone about the counsellor. He felt stupid for going at first but he knew he needed help. He didn't say much to her at first but eventually talked about his dreams. The counsellor had him what he thought the dreams meant. He trailed off talking to the headstone then. The counsellor had asked him something else, something which Anderson had forgotten as it was repressed deep down inside him and his brain sensed what it was but pulled out all defence mechanisms to keep it buried and safe.

He skipped that topic and continued talking about work colleagues and Lestrade. He came back to work after 4 months. The thin, ill-looking mere shadow of a man. His colleagues had seemingly moved on with their lives after 4 months, there was only one exception: Donovan. He hadn't seen her at all in the first month after they'd found out. He'd plucked up the courage to text and ring her a few times but had no answer. As the weeks went on, the thoughts of trying to contact her became less and less. He still looked out for her at work, often making unnecessary trips round the building, but he never saw her. At the end of the second month, he accidentally overheard she'd asked for a transfer weeks and weeks ago and moved today. He didn't know where. He felt more alone than ever. The constant pain squeezed him tightly. Donovan was the only person he felt he could talk and relate to and now she'd deserted him. From that point on, he knew he had to learn to hide everything and pretend everything was fine. He'd moved on like his colleagues had.

He talked to the headstone about John Watson. He struggled to get his words out for this topic. He didn't know John very well, only when he tagged along at crime scenes but he'd always had a soft spot for him. He told the headstone how awful he looked, 1000 times worse than Lestrade. He was a shattered man. He'd only seen him a handful of times in the past year but every time his face had entered his nightmares as well and haunted him for days. There were no words to describe how he looked and Anderson didn't dare think about it for too long.

The sky above him suddenly opened and heavy rain fell. It was only when Anderson went to wipe the drops off his face that he realised his face had already been wet from silent tears. He got off the ground and realised that he'd put something in his pocket before he left the house. His brain's grand plan. An old unsolved case was crumpled up in there.

He turned to face the grave and explained how it was one of the first cases he'd worked on after his death. Nobody at the yard could solve it and it was now deemed a cold case. Anderson had taken the briefing paper home with him to keep. He had convinced himself it was in case he got a sudden thought in the night and could continue working on it. He now knew that it was really because he had saved it for Sherlock. He knew Sherlock would be able to solve it. He'd brought it with him as a small token to him. He'd thought of him. He left it under a small flower urn behind the grave so it didn't get wet and, more importantly, was left out of sight.

He then stood at the grave in the downpour thinking how to say his farewell. In the end. Deep in his unconscious mind something was beginning to stir but the defence mechanisms still held in place as he went with a quick and awkward mumbling of 'goodbye'. He reached the spot where he had first stood and seen the grave and turned back to look at it once more. It still seemed to gleam.

He raced back through the dead, back into the choking darkness of the tube he went, racing once again back home. He stepped from the cold and the darkness of outside into the cold and the darkness of his flat. It had followed him. Always the cold and always the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

Anderson opened his eyes; they were wet. 'Pathetic' he thought to himself. A grown man, tears escaping from his eyes, lying in the foetal position, on a public toilet floor. Extremely pathetic. He clumsily got to his feet, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He didn't want to see just how pathetic he looked. His eyes dropped to his watch. Half 3. Two and a half hours had passed since he'd first seen John Watson. Anderson stood staring at his watch for several moments wondering what to do; he didn't want to spend any more time in the toilets but he didn't want to leave for fear of being seen. He took several deep breaths and then made his decision.

The top floor was still clear. He rushed through the corridors to the stair well, constantly checking around him and straining his ears for any sound of human life. Down and down he went, his heart beat pounding with each step, just as it had done on the way up. As he got further down the stairs he started to hear the sound of chatter and people still busy with their work. He rushed down faster now, his heartbeat increasing too. He made it to the first floor without seeing anybody and was just about to breathe a sigh of relief when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He stopped. Had his heart stopped too? He was trapped between floors with no escape. The footsteps grew louder. Go back up? Louder still. Carry on down? Closer. 'Just move!' he screamed internally. He went down one step. The footsteps came closer. Down another. Louder and closer. He didn't dare look over to see if he could see the person approaching. [Down. Keep moving]. He must be in their view now but his eyes and head were down. [Try to look normal. Keep moving!]. The footsteps stopped and a woman clearing her throat made his eyes snap up. Sally Donovan. She was stood a few steps down from him and staring up at him with a look of pity. Images of Lestrade wearing the same look flashed through his mind. He had to get out of there. She opened her mouth to say something but, not being able to bear hearing whatever it was, Anderson held up his hand to stop her and rushed past her. She called after him but he didn't care. He sprinted down the last flight of stairs, only turning to check she hadn't followed him when he reached the bottom. She hadn't. He left through the fire exit at the bottom of the stairs which brought him straight out onto the street. He didn't stop sprinting until he was safely through the barriers at the nearby tube station and swallowed into the crowd of people. His heart was still pounding as he took a seat on the tube and thought of Donovan and the fact that Lestrade must have sent her in search of him. He didn't know why he'd sent her when she was the last person he wanted to see.

Anderson pondered that thought. In the year and a half after _his_ death, he'd have given anything to see Donovan. Her return to the yard was a shock and it was only one of few days he remembered clearly. It was the first day back after the Christmas holidays and the New Year. Anderson saw little difference between the sixth months since visiting the grave on the year anniversary and the first year of_ his_ death. Time had once again passed by in a blur of work, surviving each day, and the ever following cold and darkness. Perhaps it had been a tiny bit more bearable now Anderson looked back. The Christmas holidays had certainly been hard. Anderson didn't like being on his own for any length of time but spending two weeks surrounded by family who were watching his every move still was just as bad, if not worse. He was glad when he returned to work and saw the strangely comforting paperwork already on his desk.

Anderson was halfway through the first case- one Sherlock would have mocked Anderson and the yard for taking more than 30 seconds to solve- when he looked up to see what time it was and caught a glimpse of her going into Lestrade's office. He blinked several times, hardly believing his eyes. Had he imagined her? He couldn't see her now or anybody in Lestrade's office for that matter. He looked around at his colleagues but they were all absorbed in their work. He rubbed his eyes and thought about how many hours sleep he'd had last night. Not many. He'd not slept properly for a year and half though and had never hallucinated before. His tired eyes fell back to the paperwork as he tried to concentrate on the notes he was supposed to be writing up. It was no good, curiosity had got the better of him now. He picked up some of the case notes and made his way over to the photocopier which was conveniently located outside Lestrade's office. He put the paper in the machine whilst casually glancing into the office. The window blinds were shut but he could definitely see a light on meaning somebody was in there. He cursed internally at how noisy the photocopier was and how noisy the office was as there was no way he could hear any noise coming from inside the office. The machine beeped at him to tell him his time for having a nosey was up. With a heavy sigh, he picked up the useless copies of paper and quickly made his way back to his desk. Once again his eyes found the paperwork in front of him and he forced himself to read it. He'd got to the end of the first paragraph (which he'd had to re-read several times as he'd not taken anything in) when the sudden sound of Lestrade's voice made his head snap violently up. He was leaving his office with Donovan following behind, both chatting and smiling. He hadn't hallucinated then! He watched them walk towards the lifts at the end of the corridor and then they disappeared from sight round the corner.

Anderson's heart was now racing. He had to speak to her and this could be his only chance. He quickly rose from his seat and picked up a few scraps of paperwork thinking that he could concoct some story should anybody ask what he was doing. He restrained himself from running down the corridor but speedily walked instead. There was nobody at the lifts when he got there and he jabbed the call button impatiently. Both lifts were on the ground floor so she must have gone down. Several more frustrated jabs of the button and one lift started to lazily make its way up. Anderson positioned himself right in front of the doors as the lift reached his floor. He went to step in, not bothering to wait for the doors to fully open, and almost collided with somebody stepping out of the lift. He quickly apologised to the bemused looking man exiting the lift, stepped inside and impatiently pressed the button for the ground floor. The lift seemed to take a life time to get going, almost as if on purpose for all the jabbing and poking, but it did its job and reached the ground floor. Anderson burst through the lift doors (first checking there was nobody to bump into) and wildly looked around the main reception area he was now in. There were 3 people sat waiting around, 2 receptionists, and 2 security guards but no Lestrade and no Donovan. He crossed the room and headed towards the main door. He had a clear view down the street both ways without having the leave the building and couldn't see them outside either. He was debating whether or not to leave work to look but knew it'd be pointless. Defeated, he made his way back upstairs.

He dropped the paperwork back onto his desk and was just about to sit back down when an envelope caught his eye and made him freeze. His name was on it. His name was on it in Sally Donovan's handwriting. His heart raced as he sat down and looked around. There was no sign of her and again, his colleagues were too busy to have even noticed him leaving his desk, never mind anybody approaching it. His hands shuck as he clumsily ripped the envelope open and began to read.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes. Sally Donovan. It was their fault. Death. Mundane. Dead. The fake genius. The grave yard. The past year and half. Donovan. The past two years. Darkness. Three year anniversary. The cold and darkness. John Watson. Lestrade. Crying. Pathetic. The tube._ The tube_.


End file.
